The arrangement was that after a few days on the farm of a friend of his we were to go for the rest of his service to a small new township in Matabeleland, where he would take over the work pro tem of another man on leave. When I first heard of this I trembled and turned sick.
Not only was I to stay longer in this fateful land, but must turn my feet towards the bleak portion of it that had robbed me directly and indirectly of all I held dear in life. In that moment I strove to draw back from the barren promise I had given Maurice Stair, telling him in burning words that he was not keeping faith with me; that I had promised to marry him but that his part of the contract was to take me from the country without delay. I resented and resisted with all the strength left in me; but that was no great amount. Strength of will, and many other things seemed to have died in me on the night I took from his palm that little blue turquoise. So his humble pleadings and arguments prevailed.
I said to myself—why, being so wretched, make another equally so? and sought with prayers and weeping for courage to take up my life afresh and face my empty fate. And in some measure at last I found it, and strength to cry with Stevenson:
“Come ill or well, the cross, the crown,
The rainbow or the thunder,
I fling my soul and body down
For God to plough them under.”
I planned with myself a fine new plan of life. If mine must be empty of the sweet personal passionate love that every girl thinks her rightful due then I would fill it with a big altruistic love for all the world. Like Heine, out of my great sorrows I would make little songs. I would live a life of gentle sacrifice to the exigencies of others, of unselfish devotion to all that was best and most beautiful in the characters of the people with whom I came in touch. Surely that would bring some solace and sweetness in the many years! I thought of faces I had seen with stories of sorrow carved upon them that were yet most noble and beautiful; and I said, mine shall be a face like that when I am old. Of the first few years I expected little but lost battles and “broken hopes for a pillow at night,” but surely in time, in time, after much stumbling and rising again to the fight, victory would come, and peace from the passionate ache of youth. Perhaps in the end that peace of God which passeth all understanding would descend like dew upon my parched soul—and give me rest from the pain of love unfulfilled. I could not die, I would live for others. Gold for silver!
These were the thoughts and plans that I took to the altar, and Maurice Stair, standing by me, so gentle and chivalrous-eyed, so debonair in his khaki and leather, seemed no ill-chosen companion for the path I was setting my feet to.
We were married in travelling-kit. I shrank from putting on all the panoply of a bride, and Maurice, when I asked him, diffidently enough, to let me off white satin and orange blossoms, was perfectly content. I was pleased at the time to find him so careless about outward forms and conventions. Still, I felt it to be only fair to him, and the proper fulfilling of my part of the bargain, to make myself look as charming as possible, so I had a special little white crêpe walking-frock made and a wide wavy hat of white lace and roses.
Judy gave me away: Sore as my heart was with her, I had to remember that she was Dick’s wife. Also there was a concession to be paid for unstintingly; she had promised, that because she must live in Buluwayo for the first year of her married life she would let little Dickie come to me wherever Maurice and I found the lines of our new life laid. I was so thankful to her for this chance of keeping Dick’s boy away from the influence of his step-father that I could almost forget her treason to that big loving heart lying out beyond Salisbury hill. Almost—not quite; but at least for the sake of the dead man’s son I tried to stifle down my resentment of an act I could not prevent.
So I let her take my hand as we drove to church, and babble to me about how sure she was that I was going to be happy—what a nice fellow Maurice was—every one said so—and so handsome—and five hundred a year apart from his salary—very few men had that out here—they all came out to try and make it by hook or by crook—of course he was nothing like some of the matches I might have made at home—but still—etc.
That aspect of the situation had indeed never occurred to me before, and while she talked I considered it musingly, remembering suddenly that there were indeed others I might have married. I wondered, vaguely then for the first time, how I came to be marrying a man I knew so little of as Maurice Stair when there were men at home who, to use their own words, were “always to hand if I should change my mind at any time.”